A Bite of Hamburg, A Taste of Paris

Rathaus, Hamburg (Personal Photo)

One activity I had been hankering to do while in Europe was to see an opera: I’ve been to a ballet, and as part of my coursework I’ve seen several plays, such as En Attendant Godot (Waiting for Godot). While in Berlin, I discovered that Carmen was playing... and I just had to see it, of course! The music was spectacular and I am sure you are all familiar with these two famous songs (Habanera and Votre Toast)... or if you’re not, you will be now! Unfortunately, the surtitles were in German, but the opera itself was sung in French, and between the bits I could catch, the acting and the synopsis I’d skimmed beforehand, I was fine.

The following day, I made a day trip to Hamburg—and no, I didn’t eat any hamburgers there. My friend Susan, who is from Hamburg, gave me some insight on what to see. I strolled through an underground tunnel beneath the river, sampled mulled wine with rum from a vendor, and visited the Alster, a man-made lake in the middle of the city.

When it was finally time to leave Berlin (and head to Paris), I stopped by Saarbrücken to meet a writing friend. En route, however, there was a stopover in Frankfurt, I grabbed McDonald's—the first time I've eaten it since coming to Europe. For 1.50 euros I got a small hot chocolate and a breakfast sandwich. The sandwich alone was 1.80 euros. Does it make sense? No. Did I enjoy the hot chocolate and the thirty cent-savings? Yes!

The Alster, Hamburg (Personal Photo)

Unfortunately, when I did reach Paris, I wasn’t able to stay for long. My exam schedule came out and I had an exam on the first possible day. which meant I had to return to Nice the following evening. My rest that night was less than pleasant; upon entering my hostel room, I discovered alcohol bottles were everywhere... and my (potentially intoxicated) roommates were rather rambunctious.

Before my train the next day, I visited the Sacré-Coeur Basilica, since it seemed rather out of the way and I wanted to make sure I hit it in case I didn’t get around to get when I really saw Paris. The view of Paris from the top of the hill was beautiful, although a guy approached me—doubtlessly pinning me for a tourist because of my backpack—and started tying this bracelet around my wrist, asking me whether I had a boyfriend! I told him I wasn’t interested (in French, and then in English when he didn’t understand me—his accent was perhaps Jamaican?) but he didn’t listen... and then he wanted money for the bracelet afterwards, claiming it to be for a donation to the church! So I replied, “I already said, ‘No Merci!’” and went on my merry way. If I’m going to donate, I’ll do it at the church itself, thank you very much.  

Sacre-Coeur Basilica, Paris (Personal Photo)

Pisa and Pizza

After conducting research, reserving trains, and booking hostels all month, I was all set to go to Italy for Toussaint, the week-long holiday at the end of October. The morning before I left, butterflies pressed at the inside of my stomach, fluttering up my throat and bursting through my lips in a series of half-nervous, half-excited giggles.

If we didn't hold up the tower,
it would have fallen already (Personal Photo)

My journey began with a locksmith.  

Since I had an early train (read: 5:30am) the following morning, I crashed on the couch of one of my classmates, who had the apartment to herself. I live about half an hour from the train station by speed walking, whereas she lives only ten minutes. Considering buses don’t run at 4am, taxis are expensive, and solo strolls in the dark often merit unwanted attention from men, I thought it was a smart move. Plus, she was having some other guests over for dinner, and it would be a good time. 

 I arrived, and lo and behold, I discover that my hostess has locked herself out of her apartment (oops!). While she called the locksmith, her other guest and I attempted to pick the lock with two hairpins. Neither of us had done it before. While I read from tutorials online, he followed my impromptu tutelage and wiggled the pins. 

The Baptistery at Pisa (Personal Photo)

An hour later, just as the locksmith is coming up the stairs, he successfully opens the door (Murphy’s law!). His triumphant cry was (almost) worth the 30 euros it cost just for him showing up. “Achievement unlocked,” I quipped, before proceeding to enjoy a fantastic evening of wine, food, and laughter.

Nothing exciting happened the next morning until the ticket machine ate my Carte Bleue (debit card).

The security guard said a guy could come open it at 7:30am. Since I had a train to catch in 20 minutes, and since I also had my Canadian credit card and plenty of cash, I figured I'd plough on ahead and notify my bank when I had wifi. (More on this subplot later.)

I was on the train, reviewing my itinerary and my next steps:

1) arrive in Ventimiglia,
2) get my Eurail pass stamped, and
3) board my reserved train to Pisa.

I would have eighteen minutes. Plenty of time, right?

Wrong.

It's really heavy, trust me (Personal Photo)

Partway to Ventimiglia, the train stopped. My heart crashed against my ribcage with anxiety, thinking that every passing second was one fewer I would have to do the aforementioned tasks. It was only when I saw another train pass by that I realized why we had stopped. 

(I would later learn, after several more train trips, that Italian trains have an unhealthy habit of being late, much like university students.)

However, the delay meant that I only had six minute to make my connection, not eighteen. Eek! Thankfully, I am well-trained at running to catch trains, planes, and buses, so I made it.

As I wandered around, looking for a seat, I bumped into a Brazilian guy named Diego. As luck would have it, he was my seatmate and was also going to Pisa. We became travel buddies for the day, snapping touristy photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and splitting a pizza. He even carried my travel foodstuffs in his backpack. Diego was a gentleman, the kind of man who helped people with their luggage and offered to take pictures of people without being asked. We parted ways when it was time for me to climb the tower (that's right, I climbed it, warped steps and all!), and then I caught the train to Rome.

Warped steps from tourists (Personal Photo)

View from the top of the tower (Personal Photo)

A “Nice” Arrival (Sept. 2, 2013)

Baie des Anges - View from le Château (Personal Photo)

I will only get away with writing this once—Nice is very nice.

The water of the Baie des Anges is impossibly blue, although strangely enough, the air smells only faintly of the sea, if at all. Every single day but one has been sunny, and even when it did rain, it cleared up by mid-morning. From the walkway along the beach, I can see all the way across the city; at night, streetlamps light up the coast. Day or night, the bay makes a perfect postcard photo.

Beautiful city aside... It was a very long day. Groggy from a combination of sleep deprivation and jet lag, I missed my bus stop and had to haul my luggage an extra half-mile to my apartment. Unlike back home, the names of the upcoming stops are neither announced nor displayed, and the street names are displayed on plaques on buildings rather than signs at intersections. Despite this mishap, I located my apartment easily (although I had fun with the keys, which are finicky) and napped. Later, I met my coordinator for dinner at a restaurant called Le Québec. With my expert internal GPS, I got lost several times despite preplanning my route and checking my map every five minutes.

 

Promenade des Anglais at night (Personal Photo)

Walking home in the dark, I was more anxious than I have ever been at night. My heart pounded with every step I took, but I set forth with a look of determination and false confidence. At night, everyone seems shifty (especially men lounging on doorsteps or investigating the dumpsters), and shadows leap from dark alleys. Nothing happened, fortunately. Perhaps I am simply paranoid from being in an unfamiliar environment, but if I had been watching me as a movie, I would have been screaming, “Don’t do it, stupid!” Next time I’m shelling out the Euros for a bus ticket. The Promenade des Anglais (walkway along the beach) is less intimidating than the narrow sidewalks of the other streets.


My parents dragged themselves onto my doorstep the next day, equally disoriented and fatigued. We spent a leisurely day at the beach and celebrated our survival with a bottle of wine. Speaking of which, wine is plentiful and cheap here. The grocery store has an entire aisle devoted to it, and bottles sell for as few as 3 Euros. My father shared some advice he obtained from a wine tasting: find a cheap bottle of wine that you love. Coca Cola (from our limited experience) is expensive, barely cheaper than wine.

It must sound like I am living a dream, that this has all been a vacation so far. For all its ups, there have been downs as well, and people don't always mention those in idealistic Facebook statuses about how wonderful their lives are. It is hot enough here that within minutes of being outside, my skin is slick with sweat. Despite wearing SPF 60 and 85 sunscreen, my cheeks turn pink after a mere two hours at the beach. My apartment lacks AC, and because I shut my balcony door at night for security purposes, I am too hot at night to sleep well (this will be less of an issue as winter approaches). Another mishap: when I went to the bank to get my debit card, I was told it wasn’t there. Without my bank card, I cannot get a mobile phone plan or internet. Woe is me! I must use campus wifi.

I have had more adventures in my first week, but those shall be saved for my next post.

Until next time!

Ready, Get Set, Fly!

The idea of living in another country is exciting. And terrifying.

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

I never thought I was one to go on an academic exchange. The travel bug has tread outside my bedroom door, but never before has it crawled over the threshold to sneak into my bed and bite me. I saw the opportunity of a lifetime, and some impulsive force compelled me to seize it, clutch it to my heart with both hands, and not let go.

Completing paperwork and hunting down documents was not how I planned spending my free time in the summer, nor making difficult phone calls with insurance companies and banks. People idealise the process, envy that you’re going abroad and they’re staying behind. Little do they know the stress of it all.

In September, I will be flying to Nice, France. It will be my first flight alone; although I am a seasoned traveller, I am still nervous.

In my lifelong dream of going to France, I’ve always thought of Paris, the City of Lights. I hear it is a beautiful city. The weather promises to be mild, for Nice is on the coast of the Mediterranean sea; I may come to miss the Canadian winters I have grown up with, but I will never miss shovelling snow. It will be my home for the next nine months.

I leave tomorrow. I can hardly believe it.

My heart quivers whenever I think of my approaching flight, as though moths have taken residence beneath my skin, gnawing at me like I am made of cotton. These past nights have brought me poor sleep; troubled dreams of flying and getting lost haunt me, ghosts that do not trouble me as much during my waking moments. My bags are packed, but a nagging voice at the back of my mind whispers that I’ve forgotten something critical, sowing seeds of doubt that I do not need.

Likely as not, I will not believe that I am actually going to be spending the year in France until I wake up in the morning in my apartment, breathing in the sea air.